The Messanger
by DinosaursOnASpaceship
Summary: After the events surrounding Miranda, it's up to Zoe to tell Wash's mother. One shot.


Mal had offered to come with her, but Zoe knew better. Mal wasn't good with bad news. He hadn't the stomach for such rituals. All those casualties in the war, not once did Mal volunteer to send the wave. This would be worse, this would be in person. Besides, Wash had been her family, not Mal's. This was on her to do. Only her.

Verbena was still the picture of industrialization, just like the last time she'd been. Smog, like miles of dirty quilts, stretched across the green grey sky. Zoe was glad they hadn't buried Wash here, he'd deserved to be under the stars. He used to say that he became a pilot just to see what everyone was on about, stars and moons and the black. This planet, as miserable as it looked, was what brought him to Zoe. She knew it and for that she couldn't hate this godforsaken place.

All of what Zoe had to say swam in and out of her mind. It was almost as if she was god. In her hands she held both tidings of life and death. They were her burdon to carry, just a little further now. To the cement house with the green shutters. Washburne residence. It was strange, to share a name with people through the dead. Zoe knew that there was a chance they would see it that way too. They could reject her, the messenger. They could strip her of her name.

But Zoe kept on going. Because Zoe had to.

The knock was deliberate and strong. No sense in being weak or shy. It was inevitable. Besides, they had as good a right as any to know the truth. Zoe stepped back, back straight. Attention, soldier! There was a moment of nothing and Zoe thought that maybe the elderly couple had gone out. But then there was the sounds of movements from inside. A stirring. Zoe held her breath.

"Zoe!" The older woman, eyes sunken, but sparkling, held the door wide open. She looked the same as last time Zoe and Wash had visited. When was that? A year ago? More? Zoe couldn't remember. She wished she could. The woman took no time in grabbing Zoe in for a hug. Zoe didn't protest, she wanted the woman to have her last moments of carefree enjoyment before… When the old woman had finally let go, curiosity dripped from her eyes. "What brings you to this ugly old moon? And where the hell's Hoban off to?" Zoe ignored the questions, instead going for polite. It was best, in situations such as these, to have good manners, tact.

"May I come in?"

"Of course, dear. Of course. Door's always open for family." Family. Right. Zoe glided inside like a ghost, her essence not really there. The woman didn't notice, too busy collecting piles of this and that and tidying up with each step she took. There was a beautiful domestic quality to it, a dance of the living. Zoe was unsure of the steps. "The mister is out, just left, too. If you ain't staying longer than an hour or two, you'll probably miss him. I know how you two are. Always flying off this way and that. I was telling Hoban, last time we talked, I was saying how it ain't decent for a married couple to—"

"Ma'am," Zoe's interjection hung in the air between them. " We should sit. I don't have long." The woman noticed the "I".

"You all in some sorta trouble?"

"There's something you oughta know." The two Washburne women were seated now. Next to each other, not across. There was something intimate about being next to someone, seated together against the rest of the 'verse. Camaraderie. That's what it was. But Zoe, still buried in her knowledge, felt alone. Maybe that was just the mourning. "He's dead."

Nothing.

Not a sound.

Not a breath.

Absolute nothing.

Then,

"Who?" She knew, Zoe could see it, feel the weight of knowledge lifting. Denial. Denial was understandable.

"Wash. It was a reaver ship. Harpoon straight through the gut. It was quick, over in a second." Zoe's eyes were blank, her voice on Novocain. Facts. It was just a repetition of events she'd seen, been witness to. It was like testifying now, in front of the judge, knowing that you're guilty but unsure of what you're guilty of. Zoe felt that guilt. As she watched the woman in front of her unwind, Zoe's body was pulled into that collapsing star of guilt. She already blamed herself. Now add more.

The woman, the Mrs. Washburne from long before Zoe'd been given the same title, had begun to sob. It wasn't a slow process. One moment she had been quiet, still as death, but then her chest had heaved and tears poured. It sounded like she was suffocating and maybe she was. Death is sometimes contagious.

Zoe let the old woman collapse into her arms. Zoe rubbed her back, waited for the tears to run out or the sobs to quiet some. Her job was only halfway over; the other side of the coin still remained face down. Zoe didn't rush the woman, can't rush enlightenment. "He died saving us all, saving a lot more than you know. A hero. A true and proper one."

It took a long time before the old woman's breathing was easier, her tears less like a flood. "There's one more thing," Zoe's voice was stern, like she was talking to a child instead of a grown woman. "And I'm sorry you gotta hear this under circumstances, ma'am."

Bloodshot eyes, puffy and distant stared a little off from Zoe's. That connection was done, cut off. Zoe was glad she'd prepared herself for it. "I— I'm pregnant." Zoe didn't smile. Life from death like a phoenix rising from the ashes wasn't a pretty sight. There was more nothing, a wet and breathy nothing, but still just that.

"I think you should go." Zoe nodded. She got up, it was easier now with all that weight lifted off her shoulders. There were no goodbyes exchanged, no "I'm sorry for your loss". Death was the ultimate goodbye.


End file.
